How many times, dear traveller, will you walk the same path?
TO THE NORTH, THE DUST OF THE IMPERIAL ARMY OBSCURED THE forest-mantled hills of Vathar. It was late afternoon, the hottest part of the day, when the wind died and the rocks radiated like flatstones on a hearth. Sergeant Strings remained motionless beneath his ochre rain cloak, lying flat as he studied the lands to the southwest. Sweat streamed down his face to prickle in his iron-shot red beard.
After a long moment studying the mass of horse warriors that had emerged out of the dusty odhan in their wake, Strings lifted a gloved hand and gestured.
The others of his squad rose from their places of concealment and edged back from the crest. The sergeant watched them until they reached cover once more, then slid around and followed.
Endless skirmishes with raiders these last weeks, beginning just outside Dojal, with more heated clashes with Kherahn Dhobri tribes at Tathimon and Sanimon… but nothing like the army now trailing them. Three thousand warriors, at the very least, of a tribe they’d not seen before. Countless barbaric standards rose above the host, tall spears topped with ragged streamers, antlers, horns and skulls. The glitter of bronze scale armour was visible beneath the black telabas and furs, as well as-more prolific-a strange greyish armour that was too supple to be anything but hide. The helms, from what Strings could make out with the distance, looked to be elaborate, many of them crow-winged, of leather and bronze.
Strings slid down to where his squad waited. They’d yet to engage in hand-to-hand combat, their sum experience of fighting little more than firing crossbows and occasionally holding a line. So far… so good. The sergeant faced Smiles. ‘All right, it’s settled-climb on that miserable horse down below, lass, and ride to the lieutenant. Looks like we’ve got a fight coming.’
Sweat had tracked runnels through the dust sheathing her face. She nodded, then scrambled off.
‘Bottle, go to Gesler’s position, and have him pass word to Borduke. I want a meeting. Quick, before their scouts get here.’
‘Aye, Sergeant.’
After a moment, Strings drew out his waterskin and passed it to Corporal Tarr, then he tapped Cuttle on the shoulder and the two of them made their way back to the ridge.
They settled down side by side to resume studying the army below.
‘These ones could maul us,’ the sergeant muttered. ‘Then again, they’re riding so tight it makes me wonder…’
Cuttle grunted, eyes thinned to slits. ‘Something’s gnawing my knuckles here, Fid. They know we’re close, but they ain’t arrayed for battle. They should’ve held back until night, then hit all along our line. And where are their scouts, anyway?’
‘Well, those outriders-’
‘Way too close. Local tribes here know better-’
A sudden scattering of stones and Strings and Cuttle twisted round-to see riders cresting the ridge on either side of them, and others cantering into view on the back-slope, closing on his squad.
‘Hood take us! Where did-’
Yipping warcries sounded, weapons waving in the air, yet the horse warriors then drew rein, rising in their stirrups as they surrounded the squad.
Frowning, Strings clambered to his feet. A glance back at the army below showed a vanguard climbing the slope at a canter. The sergeant met Cuttle’s eyes and shrugged.
The sapper grimaced in reply.
Escorted by the riders on the ridge, the two soldiers made their way down to where Tarr and Koryk stood. Both had their crossbows loaded, though no longer trained on the tribesmen wheeling their mounts in a prancing circle around them. Further down the ridge Strings saw Gesler and his squad appear, along with Bottle; and their own company of horse warriors.
‘Cuttle,’ the sergeant muttered, ‘did you clash with these anywhere north of the River Vathar?’
‘No. But I think I know who they are.’
None of these scouts wore bronze armour. The grey hide beneath their desert-coloured cloaks and furs looked strangely reptilian. Crow wings had been affixed to their forearms, like swept-back fins. Their faces were pale by local standards, unusual in being bearded and long-moustached. Tattoos of black tears ran down the lengths of their weathered cheeks.
Apart from lances, fur-covered wooden scabbards were slung across their backs, holding heavy-bladed tulwars. All had crow-feet earrings dangling from under their helms.
The tribe’s vanguard reached the crest above them and drew to a halt, as, on the opposite side, there appeared a company of Wickans, Seti and Malazan officers.
Beru fend, the Adjunct herself’s with them. Also Fist Gamet, Nil, Nether and Temul, as well as Captain Keneb and Lieutenant Ranal.
The two mounted forces faced one another on either side of the shallow gully, and Strings could see Temul visibly start, then lean over to speak to the Adjunct. A moment later, Tavore, Gamet and Temul rode forward.
From the tribe’s vanguard a single rider began the descent on the back-slope. A chieftain, Strings surmised. The man was huge; two tulwars were strapped to a harness crossing his chest, one of them broken just above the hilt. The black tears tattooed down his broad cheeks looked to have been gouged into the flesh. He rode down fairly close to where Strings and Cuttle stood and paused beside them.
He nodded towards the approaching group and asked in rough Malazan, ‘This is the Plain Woman who leads you?’
Strings winced, then nodded. ‘Adjunct Tavore, aye.’
‘We have met the Kherahn Dhobri,’ the chieftain said, then smiled. ‘They will harass you no more, Malazan.’
Tavore and her officers arrived, halting five paces away. The Adjunct spoke. ‘I welcome you, Warchief of the Khundryl. I am Adjunct Tavore Paran, commander of the Fourteenth Army of the Malazan Empire.’
‘I am Gall, and we are the Burned Tears of the Khundryl.’
‘The Burned Tears?’
The man made a gesture of grief. ‘Blackwing, leader of the Wickans. I spoke with him. My warriors sought to challenge, to see who were the greatest warriors of all. We fought hard, but we were humbled. Blackwing is dead, his clan destroyed, and Korbolo Dom’s Dogslayers dance on his name. That must be answered, and so we have come. Three thousand-all that fought for Blackwing the first time. We are changed, Adjunct. We are other than we once were. We grieve the loss of ourselves, and so we shall remain lost, for all time.’
‘Your words sadden me, Gall,’ Tavore replied, her voice shaky.
Careful now, lass…
‘We would join you,’ the Khundryl warchief rasped, ‘for we have nowhere else to go. The walls of our yurts look strange to our eyes. The faces of our wives, husbands, children-all those we once loved and who once loved us-strangers, now. Like Blackwing himself, we are as ghosts in this world, in this land that was once our home.’
‘You would join us-to fight under my command, Gall?’
‘We would.’
‘Seeking vengeance against Korbolo Dom,’
He shook his head. ‘That will come, yes. But we seek to make amends.’
She frowned beneath her helm. ‘Amends? By Temul’s account you fought bravely, and well. Without your intercession, the Chain of Dogs would have fallen at Sanimon. The refugees would have been slaughtered-’
‘Yet we then rode away-back to our lands, Adjunct. We thought only to lick our wounds. While the Chain marched on. To more battles. To its final battle.’ He was weeping in truth now, and an eerie keening sound rose from the other horse warriors present. ‘We should have been there. That is all.’
The Adjunct said nothing for a long moment.
Strings removed his helm and wiped the sweat from his brow. He glanced back up the slope, and saw a solid line of Khundryl on the ridge. Silent. Waiting.
Tavore cleared her throat. ‘Gall, Warchief of the Burned Tears… the Fourteenth Army welcomes you.’
The answering roar shook the ground underfoot. Strings turned and met Cuttle’s eyes. Three thousand veterans of this Hood-damned desert. Queen of Dreams, we have a chance. Finally, it looks like we have a chance. He did not need to speak aloud to know that Cuttle understood, for the man slowly nodded.
But Gall was not finished. Whether he realized the full measure of his next gesture-no, Strings would conclude eventually, he could not have-even so… The Warchief gathered his reins and rode forward, past the Adjunct. He halted his horse before Temul, then dismounted.
Three strides forward. Under the eyes of over three hundred Wickans, and five hundred Seti, the burly Khundryl-his grey eyes fixed on Temul-halted. Then he unslung his broken tulwar and held it out to the Wickan youth.
Temul was pale as he reached down to accept it.
Gall stepped back and slowly lowered himself to one knee. ‘We are not Wickans,’ the warchief grated, ‘but this I swear-we shall strive to be.’ He lowered his head.
Temul sat unmoving, visibly struggling beneath a siege of emotions, and Strings suddenly realized that the lad did not know how to answer, did not know what to do.
The sergeant took a step, then swung his helm upward, as if to put it back on. Temul caught the flash of movement, even as he looked about to dismount, and he froze as he met Strings’s eyes.
A slight shake of the head. Stay in that saddle, Temul! The sergeant reached up and touched his own mouth. Talk. Answer with words, lad!
The commander slowly settled back into his saddle, then straightened. ‘Gall of the Burned Tears,’ he said, barely a tremble to his voice, ‘Blackwing sees through the eyes of every Wickan here. Sees, and answers. Rise. In Blackwing’s name, I, Temul of the Crow Clan, accept you… the Burned Tears… of the Crow Clan, of the Wickans.’ He then took the loop of leather to which the broken tulwar was tied, and lowered it over his shoulder.
With the sound of a wave rolling up a league-long strand of beach, weapons were unsheathed along the ridge, a salute voiced by iron alone.
A shiver rippled through Strings.
‘Hood’s breath,’ Cuttle muttered under his breath. ‘That is a lot more frightening than their warcries were.’
Aye, as ominous as Hood’s smile. He looked back to Temul and saw the Wickan watching him. The sergeant lowered the helm onto his head once more, then grinned and nodded. Perfect, lad. Couldn’t have done better myself.
And now, Temul wasn’t alone any more, surrounded by sniping arthritic wolves who still wouldn’t accept his command. Now, the lad had Gall and three thousand blooded warriors to back his word. And that’s the last of that. Gall, if I was a religious man, I’d burn a crow-wing in your name tonight. Hood take me, I might do it anyway.
‘Gall of the Burned Tears,’ the Adjunct announced. ‘Please join us at our command quarters. We can discuss the disposition of your forces over a meal-a modest meal, alas-’
The Khundryl finally straightened. He faced the Adjunct. ‘Modest? No. We have brought our own food, and this night there shall be a feast-not a single soldier shall go without at least a mouthful of bhederin or boar!’ He swung about and scanned his retinue until he spied the one he sought. ‘Imrahl! Drag your carcass back to the wagons and bring them forward! And find the two hundred cooks and see if they’ve sobered up yet! And if they haven’t, I will have their heads!’
The warrior named Imrahl, an ancient, scrawny figure who seemed to be swimming beneath archaic bronze armour, answered with a broad, ghastly smile, then spun his horse round and kicked it into a canter back up the slope.
Gall swung about and raised both hands skyward, the crow-wings attached to the forearms seeming to snap open beneath them. ‘Let the Dogslayers cower!’ he roared. ‘The Burned Tears have begun the hunt!’
Cuttle leaned close to Strings. ‘That’s one problem solved-the Wickan lad’s finally on solid ground. One wound sewn shut, only to see another pried open.’
‘Another?’ Oh. Yes, true enough. That Wickan Fist’s ghost keeps rearing up, again and again. Poor lass.
‘As if Coltaine’s legacy wasn’t already dogging her heels… if you’ll excuse the pun,’ the sapper went on. ‘Still, she’s putting a brave face on it…’
No choice. Strings faced his squad. ‘Collect your gear, soldiers. We’ve got pickets to raise… before we eat.’ At their groans he scowled. ‘And consider yourselves lucky-missing those scouts don’t bode well for our capabilities, now, does it?’
He watched them assemble their gear. Gesler and Borduke were approaching with their own squads. Cuttle grunted at the sergeant’s side. ‘In case it’s slipped your mind, Fid,’ he said, low, ‘we didn’t see the bastards, either.’
‘You’re right,’ Strings replied, ‘it’s slipped my mind completely. Huh, there it goes again. Gone.’
Cuttle scratched the bristle on his heavy jaw. ‘Strange, what were we talking about?’
‘Bhederin and boar, I think. Fresh meat.’
‘Right. My mouth’s watering at the thought.’
Gamet paused outside the command tent. The revelry continued unabated, as the Khundryl roved through the camp, roaring their barbaric songs. Jugs of fermented milk had been broached and the Fist was grimly certain that more than one bellyful of half-charred, half-raw meat had returned to the earth prematurely out beyond the fires, or would in the short time that remained before dawn.
Next day’s march had been halved, by the Adjunct’s command, although even five bells’ walking was likely to make most of the soldiers regret this night’s excesses.
Or maybe not.
He watched a marine from his own legion stumble past, a Khundryl woman riding him, legs wrapped around his waist, arms around his neck. She was naked, the marine nearly so. Weaving, the pair vanished into the gloom.
Gamet sighed, drawing his cloak tighter about himself, then turned and approached the two Wickans standing guard outside the Adjunct’s tent.
They were from the Crow, grey-haired and looking miserable. Recognizing the Fist they stepped to either side of the entrance. He passed between them, ducking to slip between the flaps.
All of the other officers had left, leaving only the Adjunct and Gall, the latter sprawled on a massive, ancient-looking wooden chair that had come on the Khundryl wagons. The warchief had removed his helm, revealing a mass of curly hair, long and black and shimmering with grease. The midnight hue was dye, Gamet suspected, for the man had seen at least fifty summers. The tips of his moustache rested on his chest and he looked half asleep, a jug gripped by the clay handle in one huge hand. The Adjunct stood nearby, eyes lowered onto a brazier, as if lost in thought.
Were I an artist, I would paint this scene. This precise moment, and leave the viewer to wonder. He strode over to the map table, where another jug of wine waited. ‘Our army is drunk, Adjunct,’ he murmured as he poured a cup full.
‘Like us,’ Gall rumbled. ‘Your army is lost.’
Gamet glanced over at Tavore, but there was no reaction for him to gauge. He drew a breath, then faced the Khundryl. ‘We are yet to fight a major battle, Warchief. Thus, we do not yet know ourselves. That is all. We are not lost-’
‘Just not yet found,’ Gall finished, baring his teeth. He took a long swallow from his jug.
‘Do you regret your decision to join us, then?’ Gamet asked.
‘Not at all, Fist. My shamans have read the sands. They have learned much of your future. The Fourteenth Army shall know a long life, but it shall be a restless life. You are doomed to search, destined to ever hunt… for what even you do not know, nor, perhaps, shall you ever know. Like the sands themselves, wandering for eternity.’
Gamet was scowling. ‘I do not wish to offend, Warchief, but I hold little faith in divination. No mortal-no god-can say we are doomed, or destined. The future remains unknown, the one thing we cannot force a pattern upon.’
The Khundryl grunted. ‘Patterns, the lifeblood of the shamans. But not them alone, yes? The Deck of Dragons-are they not used for divination?’
Gamet shrugged. ‘There are some who hold much store in the Deck, but I am not one of them.’
‘Do you not see patterns in history, Fist? Are you blind to the cycles we all suffer through? Look upon this desert, this wasteland you cross. Yours is not the first empire that would claim it. And what of the tribes? Before the Khundryl, before the Kherahn Dhobri and the Tregyn, there were the Sanid, and the Oruth, and before them there were others whose names have vanished. Look upon the ruined cities, the old roads. The past is all patterns, and those patterns remain beneath our feet even as the stars above reveal their own patterns-for the stars we gaze upon each night are naught but an illusion from the past.’ He raised the jug again and studied it for a moment. ‘Thus, the past lies beneath and above the present, Fist. This is the truth my shamans embrace, the bones upon which the future clings like muscle.’
The Adjunct slowly turned to study the warchief. ‘We shall reach Vathar Crossing tomorrow, Gall. What will we find?’
The Khundryl’s eyes glittered. ‘That is for you to decide, Tavore Paran. It is a place of death, and it shall speak its words to you-words the rest of us will not hear.’
‘Have you been there?’ she asked. He nodded, but added nothing more.
Gamet drank down a mouthful of wine. There was a strangeness to this night, to this moment here in the Adjunct’s tent, that left his skin crawling. He felt out of place, like a simpleton who’d just stumbled into the company of scholars. The revelry in the camp beyond was dying down, and come the dawn, he knew, there would be silence. Drunken oblivion was, each time, a small, temporary death. Hood walked where the self once stood, and the wake of the god’s passage sickened mortal flesh afterwards.
He set his cup down on the map table. ‘If you’ll forgive me,’ he muttered, ‘the air in here is too… close.’
Neither replied as he walked back to the flap.
Outside, in the street beyond the two motionless Wickan guards, Gamet paused and looked up. Ancient light, is it? If so, then the patterns I see… may have died long ago. No, that does not bear thinking about. It is one of those truths that have no value, for it offers nothing but dislocation.
And he needed no fuel for that cold fire. He was too old for this war. Hood knows, I didn’t enjoy it much the first time round. Vengeance belonged to the young, after all. The time when emotions burned hottest, when life was sharp enough to cut, fierce enough to sear the soul.
He was startled by the passing of a large cattle dog. Head low, muscles rippling beneath a mottled hide literally seamed with countless scars, the silent beast padded down the aisle between the tent rows. A moment later and it disappeared into the gloom.
‘I’ve taken to following it,’ a voice said behind him.
Gamet turned. ‘Captain Keneb. I am surprised to find you still awake.’
The soldier shrugged. ‘That boar’s not sitting too well in my gut, sir.’
‘More likely that fermented milk the Khundryl brought-what is it called again?’
‘Urtathan. But no, I have experienced that brew before, and so chose to avoid it. Come the morning, I suspect three-quarters of the army will realize a similar wisdom.’
‘And the remaining quarter?’
‘Dead.’ He smiled at Gamet’s expression. ‘Sorry, sir, I wasn’t entirely serious.’
The Fist gestured for the captain to accompany him, and they began walking. ‘Why do you follow that dog, Keneb?’
‘Because I know its tale, sir. It survived the Chain of Dogs. From Hissar to the Fall outside Aren. I watched it fall almost at Coltaine’s feet. Impaled by spears. It should not have survived that.’
‘Then how did it?’
‘Gesler.’
Gamet frowned. ‘The sergeant in our legion’s marines?’
‘Aye, sir. He found it, as well as another dog. What happened then I have no idea. But both beasts recovered from what should have been mortal wounds.’
‘Perhaps a healer…’
Keneb nodded. ‘Perhaps, but none among Blistig’s guard-I made enquiries. No, there’s a mystery yet to be solved. Not just the dogs, but Gesler himself, and his corporal, Stormy, and a third soldier-have you not noted their strangely hued skin? They’re Falari, yet Falari are pale-skinned, and a desert tan doesn’t look like that at all. Curious, too, it was Gesler who delivered the Silanda.’
‘Do you believe they have made a pact with a god, Captain? Such cults are forbidden in the imperial army.’
‘I cannot answer that, sir. Nor have I evidence sufficient to make such a charge against them. Thus far, I have kept Gesler’s squad, and a few others, as the column’s rearguard.’
The Fist grunted. ‘This news is disturbing, Captain. You do not trust your own soldiers. And this is the first time you’ve told me of any of this. Have you considered confronting the sergeant directly?’
They had reached the edge of the camp. Before them stretched a broken line of hills; to their right, the dark forest of Vathar.
To Gamet’s questions, Keneb sighed and nodded. ‘They in turn do not trust me, Fist. There is a rumour in my company… that I abandoned my last soldiers, at the time of the uprising.’
And did you, Keneb? Gamet said nothing.
But it seemed that the captain heard the silent question none the less. ‘I didn’t, although I will not deny that some of the decisions I made back then could give cause to question my loyalty to the empire.’
‘You had better explain that,’ Gamet said quietly.
‘I had family with me. I sought to save them, and for a time nothing else mattered. Sir, whole companies went over to the rebels. You did not know who to trust. And as it turned out, my commander-’
‘Say no more of that, Captain. I’ve changed my mind. I don’t want to know. Your family? Did you manage to save them?’
‘Aye, sir. With some timely help from an outlawed Bridgeburner-’
‘A what? Who, in Hood’s name?’
‘Corporal Kalam, sir.’
‘He’s here? In Seven Cities?’
‘He was. On his way, I think, to the Empress. From what I gathered, he had some issues he wanted to, uh, raise with her. In person.’
‘Who else knows all this?’
‘No-one, sir. I’ve heard the tale, that the Bridgeburners were wiped out. But I can tell you, Kalam was not among them. He was here, sir. And as to where he is now, perhaps the Empress alone knows.’
There was a smudge of motion in the grasses, about twenty paces distant. That dog. Hood knows what it’s up to. ‘All right, Captain. Keep Gesler in the rearguard for now. But at some point, before the battle, we’ll have to test him-I need to know if he’s reliable.’
‘Aye, sir.’
‘Your beast is wandering out there.’
‘I know. Every night. As if looking for something. I think it might be Coltaine. Looking for Coltaine. And it breaks my heart, sir.’
‘Well, if it’s true, Captain, that the dog’s looking for Coltaine, I admit to being surprised.’
‘What do you mean, sir?’
‘Because the bastard’s here. You’d have to be blind, dumb and deaf to miss him, Captain. Goodnight to you.’ He turned and strode off, feeling the need to spit, but he knew the bitter taste in his mouth would not so easily leave him.
The fire was long dead. Wrapped in his cloak, Strings sat before it, looking at but not seeing the layered bricks of ash that were all that remained of the pieces of dung. Beside him lay the scrawny Hengese lapdog that Truth said was named Roach. The bone the creature gnawed on was bigger than it, and had that bone teeth and appetite it would be the one doing the eating right now.
Contented company, then, to mock this miserable night. The blanketed forms of his squad lay motionless on all sides. They’d been too exhausted to get drunk, after raising the pickets then sitting first watch, and full bellies had quickly dragged them into sleep. Well enough, he mused, they’d be among the few spared the ravages of hangover in a few bells’ time. Even Cuttle had yet to awaken, as was his custom-or perhaps his eyes were open where he lay with his back to the hearth.
It did not matter. The loneliness Strings suffered could not be alleviated by company, not such as he might find here, in any case. Nor were his thoughts the kind he would willingly share.
They’d been spitting dust almost since the march began. Not the place for marines, unless a massive pursuit threatened the rear of the column, which was not the case. No. Keneb was punishing them, and Strings had no idea why. Even the lieutenant, who had somehow managed to avoid actually being present to command the squads, was uncertain as to the captain’s motivations. Though not displeased, of course. Then again, how can Ranal hope to acquire his stellar reputation with his soldiers coughing the entire Fourteenth’s dust?
And do I even give a damn, any more?
The night air stank of bile, as if Poliel herself stalked the camp. The sudden acquisition of three thousand veterans had done much to lift the Fourteenth’s spirits-Strings hoped there was no omen in the aftermath.
All right then, let’s consider the matter at hand. This army has its chance, now. It doesn’t need bastards like me. Why would I want to go back to Raraku anyway? I hated it the first time. I’m not that young, mouthy fool-not what I once was. Did I really think I could recapture something in that holy desert? What, exactly? Lost years? That charging momentum that belongs to the young? To soldiers like Smiles and Koryk and Bottle and Tan. I joined for revenge, but it’s not filling my belly like it used to-Hood knows, nothing does any more. Not revenge. Not loyalty. Not even friendship. Damn you, Kalam, you should’ve talked me out of it. Right there in Malaz City. You should’ve called me a fool to my face.
Gesler’s cattle dog padded into view.
Roach growled, and the bigger beast paused, nose testing the air, then settled down a few paces away. The lapdog returned to its gnawing.
‘Come ahead, then, Gesler,’ Strings muttered.
The sergeant appeared, a jug in one hand. He sat down opposite, studied the jug for a moment, then made a disgusted sound and tossed it away. ‘Can’t get drunk any more,’ he said. ‘Not me, not Stormy or Truth. We’re cursed.’
‘I can think of worse curses,’ Strings muttered.
‘Well, so can I, but still. What’s really bad is I can’t sleep. None of us can. We was at Vathar Crossing-that’s where we drew the Silanda in to wait for the Chain of Dogs. Where I got punched good and hard, too. Damn, but that surprised me. Anyway, I’m not looking forward to seeing it again. Not after what happened there.’
‘So long as the bridge hasn’t been swept away,’ Strings replied.
Gesler grunted.
Neither spoke for a time, then: ‘You’re thinking of running, aren’t you, Fid?’
He scowled.
Gesler slowly nodded. ‘It’s bad when you lose ’em. Friends, I mean. Makes you wonder why you’re still here, why the damned sack of blood and muscle and bones keeps on going. So you run. Then what? Nothing. You’re not here, but wherever you are, you’re still there.’
Strings grimaced. ‘I’m supposed to make sense of that? Listen, it’s not just what happened to the Bridgeburners. It’s about being a soldier. About doing this all over again. I’ve realized that I didn’t even like it much the first time round. There’s got to come a point, Gesler, when it’s no longer the right place to be, or the right thing to do.’
‘Maybe, but I ain’t seen it yet. It comes down to what you’re good at. Nothing else, Fid. You don’t want to be a soldier no more. Fine, but what are you going to do instead?’
‘I was apprenticed as a mason, once-’
‘And apprentices are ten years old, Fiddler. They ain’t crabby creak-bones like you. Look, there’s only one thing for a soldier to do, and that’s soldiering. You want it to end? Well, there’s a battle coming. Should give you plenty of opportunity. Throw yourself on a sword and you’re done.’ Gesler paused and jabbed a finger at Strings. ‘But that’s not the problem, is it? It’s because now you’ve got a squad, and you’re responsible for ’em. That’s what you don’t like, and that’s what’s got you thinking of running.’
Strings rose. ‘Go pet your dog, Gesler.’ He walked off into the darkness.
The grass was wet underfoot as he made his way through the pickets. Muted challenges sounded, to which he replied, and then he was out beyond the camp. Overhead, the stars had begun to withdraw as the sky lightened. Capemoths were winging in swirling clouds towards the forested hills of Vathar, the occasional rhizan diving through them, upon which they exploded outward, only to reform once the danger was past.
On the ridge three hundred paces ahead of the sergeant stood a half-dozen desert wolves. They’d done their howling for the night, and now lingered out of curiosity, or perhaps simply awaiting the army’s departure, so they could descend into the basin and pick at the leavings.
Strings paused at a faint singing, low and mournful and jarring, that seemed to emanate from a depression just this side of the ridge. He’d heard it other nights, always beyond the encampment, but had not been inclined to investigate. There was nothing inviting to that thin, atonal music.
But now it called to him. With familiar voices. Heart suddenly aching, he walked closer.
The depression was thick with yellowed grasses, but a circle had been flattened in the centre. The two Wickan children, Nil and Nether, were seated there, facing one another, with the space between them occupied by a broad, bronze bowl.
Whatever filled it was drawing butterflies, a score at present, but more were gathering.
Strings hesitated, then made to leave.
‘Come closer,’ Nil called out in his reedy voice. ‘Quickly, the sun rises!’
Frowning, the sergeant approached. As he reached the edge of the depression, he halted in sudden alarm. Butterflies swarmed around him, a pale yellow frenzy filling his eyes-brushing air against his skin like a thousand breaths. He spun in place, but could see nothing beyond the mass of fluttering wings.
‘Closer! He wants you here!’ Nether’s high, piping voice. But Strings could not take another step. He was enveloped, and within that yellow shroud, there was a… presence.
And it spoke. ‘Bridgeburner. Raraku waits for you. Do not turn back now.’
‘Who are you?’ Strings demanded. ‘Who speaks?’
‘I am of this land, now. What I was before does not matter. I am awakened. We are awakened. Go to join your kin. In Raraku-where he will find you. Together, you must slay the goddess. You must free Raraku of the stain that lies upon it.’
‘My kin? Who will I find there?’
‘The song wanders, Bridgeburner. It seeks a home. Do not turn back.’
All at once the presence vanished. The butterflies rose skyward, spinning and swirling into the sunlight. Higher, ever higher…
Small hands clutched at him, and he looked down. Nether stared up at him, her face filled with panic. Two paces behind her stood Nil, his arms wrapped about himself, his eyes filling with tears.
Nether was screaming. ‘Why you? We have called and called! Why you!?’
Shaking his head, Strings pushed her away. ‘I-I don’t know!’
‘What did he say? Tell us! He had a message for us, yes? What did he say?’
‘For you? Nothing, lass-why, who in Hood’s name do you think that was?’
‘Sormo E’nath!’
‘The warlock? But he-’ Strings staggered another step back. ‘Stop that damned singing!’
The Wickans stared.
And Strings realized that neither was singing-neither could have been-for it continued, filling his head.
Nether asked, ‘What singing, soldier?’
He shook his head again, then turned and made his way back towards camp. Sormo had no words for them. Nor did he. Nor did he want to see their faces-their helpless desperation, their yearning for a ghost that was gone-gone for ever. That was not Sormo E’nath. That was something else-Hood knows what. ‘We are awakened.’ What does that mean? And who’s waiting for me in Raraku? My kin-I’ve none, barring the Bridgeburners-gods below! Quick Ben? Kalam? One, or both? He wanted to scream, if only to silence the song that whispered through his head, the dreadful, painfully incomplete music that gnawed at his sanity.
Raraku, it seemed, was not yet done with him. Strings silently railed. Damn all of this!
To the north, through the smoky wreaths of the encampment, the mantled hills of Vathar seemed to unfurl the sun’s golden light. On the ridge behind him, the wolves began howling.
Gamet settled back in the saddle as his horse began the descent towards the river. It had not been long enough for the land to entirely swallow the victims of the slaughter that had occurred here. Bleached bones gleamed in the sandy mud of the shoreline. Fragments of cloth, pieces of leather and iron. And the ford itself was barely recognizable. Remnants of a floating bridge were heaped on it on the upstream side, and on this barrier more detritus had piled. Sunken, waterlogged wagons, trees, grasses and reeds, now anchored by silts, a hulking, bowed mass that had formed a kind of bridge. To the Fist’s eye, it seemed the whole thing was moments from breaking loose.
Scouts had crossed it on foot. Gamet could see a score of mud-smeared Seti on the opposite side, making their way up the steep slope.
The forests on both sides of the river were a mass of colour, their branches festooned with strips of cloth, with braids and painted human bones that twisted in the wind.
Mesh’arn tho’ledann. The Day of Pure Blood. Upstream, on either bank for as far as he could see, long poles had been thrust into the mud at angles so that they hung over the swirling water. The carcasses of sheep and goats hung from them. From some the blood still drained, whilst others were well along in their rot, seething with flies, capemoths and carrion birds. Small white flecks rained down from the sacrificed animals, to which fish swarmed, and it was a moment before Gamet realized what those flecks were-maggots, falling into the river.
Captain Keneb drew his horse alongside Gamet’s own as they approached the bank. ‘That’s not mud binding that flotsam, is it? Oh, a little silt and sand, but mostly-’
‘Blood, aye,’ Gamet muttered.
They were trailing the Adjunct, who was flanked by Nil and Nether. The three reached the water’s edge and halted their mounts. Behind Gamet and Keneb, the front companies of the 10th Legion were on the slope, within sight of the river and its ragged bridge.
‘Those sacrifices, do you think they were done to welcome us, Fist? I can’t imagine such slaughter to be ongoing-the herds would be wiped out in no time.’
‘Some have been here a while,’ Gamet observed. ‘But you must be right, Captain.’
‘So we would cross a river of blood. If these damned tribes consider that gesture an honourable one, then the Queen has stolen their sanity. This notion of seeing the world metaphorically has ever driven me to distraction. The Seven Cities native sees everything differently. To them, the landscape is animate-not just the old notion of spirits, but in some other, far more complicated way.’
Gamet glanced at the man. ‘Is it worth making a study of it, Captain?’
Keneb started, then half smiled, adding a strangely despondent shrug. ‘That particular dialogue spoke of the rebellion and only the rebellion-for months and months before it finally happened. Had we bothered to read those signs, Fist, we could have been better prepared.’
They had drawn up behind the Adjunct and the two Wickans. At Keneb’s words, Tavore turned her horse round and faced the captain. ‘Sometimes,’ she said, ‘knowledge is not enough.’
‘Your pardon, Adjunct,’ Keneb said.
Tavore fixed her flat gaze on Gamet. ‘Bring forward the marines, Fist. We will require sappers and munitions. We shall cross a ford, not a bridge of detritus held in place by blood.’
‘Aye, Adjunct. Captain, if you will join me…’
They pulled their horses round and made their way back up the slope. Glancing over at Keneb, Gamet saw that the man was grinning. ‘What amuses you, Captain?’
‘Munitions, sir. The sappers will weep.’
‘So long as they don’t destroy the ford itself, I will be glad to give them comforting hugs.’
‘I wouldn’t let them hear a promise like that, sir.’
‘No, I suppose you’re right.’
They reached the front ranks of the 10th Legion and Gamet waved a messenger over. As the rider approached, Fist Tene Baralta joined the woman and the two arrived together.
‘Sappers?’ the Red Blade asked.
Gamet nodded. ‘Aye.’
Tene Baralta nodded and said to the messenger, ‘Take word to the marine lieutenants. The Adjunct requires some demolition. Immediately.’
‘Aye, sir,’ she replied, wheeling her horse round.
They watched her canter back along the line, then the Red Blade faced Gamet. ‘They will see it as an insult. This bridge of blood is intended as a blessing.’
‘She knows that, Tene Baralta,’ Gamet replied. ‘But the footing is far too treacherous. That should be obvious, even to our hidden observers.’
The large man shrugged, armour clanking with the motion. ‘Perhaps a quiet word to Gall of the Khundryl, a rider sent out to find those observers, to ensure that no misunderstanding occurs.’
‘A good suggestion,’ Gamet replied.
‘I shall see to it, then.’
The Red Blade rode off.
‘Forgive me if I am too forward, Fist,’ Keneb murmured, ‘but what just occurred strikes me as the very thing that the Adjunct would dislike most.’
‘Do you believe she dislikes initiative among her officers, Captain?’
‘I wouldn’t presume-’
‘You just did.’
‘Ah, well, I see your point. My apologies, Fist.’
‘Never apologize when you’re right, Keneb. Wait here for the squads.’ He set off down to where the Adjunct still sat astride her horse at the shoreline.
Nil and Nether had dismounted and were now kneeling, heads bowed, in the muddy water.
Gamet could see, upon arriving, Tavore’s tightly bridled anger. Aye, they cling still to the chains, and it seems letting go is the last thing they would do… given the choice. Well, I was the one who mentioned initiative. ‘I see the children are playing in the mud, Adjunct.’
Her head snapped round and her eyes narrowed.
Gamet went on, ‘I advise we assign a minder for them, lest they injure themselves in their exuberance. After all, Adjunct, I doubt the Empress intended you to mother them, did she?’
‘Well, no,’ she drawled after a moment. ‘They were to be my mages.’
‘Aye, so I wonder, have you instructed them to commune with the ghosts? Do they seek to appease the river spirits?’
‘No, again, Fist. In truth, I have no idea what they’re doing.’
‘I am of the opinion that you are proving far too permissive a mother, Adjunct.’
‘Indeed. Then I give you leave to act in my stead, Fist.’
There was no way Nil and Nether were uncognizant of the conversation behind them, but neither altered their position. With a loud sigh, Gamet dismounted and walked to the muddy waterline.
Then reached down and closed a hand on their hide shirts, just behind their necks, and yanked the two Wickans upright.
Loud squeals, then hissing fury as the Fist shook them both for a moment, then turned them round until they faced the Adjunct. ‘This is what a Wickan grandmother would have done. I know, somewhat harsher than is the Malazan style of parenting. Then again, these two children are not Malazan, are they?’ He set them down.
‘Perhaps it’s too late, Fist,’ Tavore said, ‘but I would remind you that these two children are also warlocks.’
‘I’ve seen no sign of it yet, Adjunct. But if they want to curse me, then so be it.’
For the moment, however, neither seemed inclined to do so. Rage had given way to something very much resembling a sulk.
Tavore cleared her throat. ‘Nil, Nether, I believe there will be need for representatives of our army to seek out the local tribes in this forest, to assure them we are aware of the meaning behind their gesture. None the less, we must ensure safe passage across this ford.’
‘Adjunct, Fist Tene Baralta has suggested something similar, but using the Khundryl.’
‘Perhaps representatives from both, then.’ To the Wickans: ‘Report to Fist Tene Baralta.’
Gamet watched the siblings exchange a glance, then Nil said to the Adjunct, ‘As you wish.’
Nether cast a parting look of venom at Gamet as they headed off.
‘Pray you won’t have to pay for that,’ Tavore said when they were out of earshot.
Gamet shrugged.
‘And next time, have Tene Baralta bring his suggestions to me personally.’
‘Aye, Adjunct.’
Cuttle and Strings scrambled back from the shoreline. Soaked and sheathed in blood-crusted mud, they none the less could not keep grins from their faces. A doubling of pleasure in that the munitions had come from the Fourteenth’s stores, not their own. Twelve crackers that would drive the explosions horizontally, three cussers placed shallow in the detritus to loosen the wreckage.
And a bare handful of heartbeats before it all went up.
The rest of the army had pulled back to the top of the slope on this side; the Seti scouts on the opposite side were nowhere to be seen. Leaving only the two sappers-
– running like madmen.
A thundering whump sent both men flying. Sand, mud, water, followed by a rain of debris.
Hands over their heads, they lay motionless for a long moment, with the only sound to reach them the rush of water sweeping over the cleared ford. Then Strings looked across at Cuttle, to find him looking back.
Maybe two cussers would have done.
They exchanged nods, then clambered to their feet.
The ford was indeed clear. The water beyond seethed with flotsam, now making its way down to the Dojal Hading Sea.
Strings wiped mud from his face. ‘Think we made any holes, Cuttle?’
‘Nothing that’ll drown anyone, I’d wager. Good thing you didn’t run,’ Cuttle added in a murmur, as riders made their way down the slope behind them.
Strings shot the man a glance. ‘What don’t you hear?’
‘Not a question I can answer, is it, Fid?’
The first rider arrived-their fellow sapper, Maybe, from the 6th squad. ‘Flat and clean,’ he said, ‘but you left it too close-what’s the point of making a big explosion when you’ve got your face in the dirt when it goes off?’
‘Any other bright comments to make, Maybe?’ Cuttle growled, brushing himself down-a gesture that clearly had no chance of any kind of measurable success. ‘If not, then kindly ride out there and check for holes.’
‘Slowly,’ Strings added. ‘Let your horse find its own pace.’
Maybe’s brows rose. ‘Really?’ Then he nudged his mount forward.
Strings stared after the soldier. ‘I hate satirical bastards like him.’
‘The Wickans will skin him alive if he breaks that horse’s legs.’
‘That has the sound of a feud in the making.’
Cuttle paused in his fruitless efforts to clean himself, then frowned. ‘What?’
‘Never mind.’
Ranal and Keneb rode up. ‘Nicely done,’ the captain said. ‘I think.’
‘Should be all right,’ Strings replied. ‘So long as nobody starts firing arrows at us.’
‘Taken care of, Sergeant. Well, to your squad, the privilege of first crossing.’
‘Aye, sir.’
There should have been pleasure, in a task well done, but Strings felt nothing beyond the initial rush that had immediately followed the detonation. The broken song whispered on in his mind, a dirge lying beneath his every thought.
‘The way ahead seems clear,’ Cuttle muttered.
Aye. Doesn’t mean I have to like it.
The land rose steeply on the north side of the Vathar River, with a treeless butte towering over the trail to the west. The army’s crossing continued as the Adjunct and Gamet climbed the goat trail towards the butte’s summit. The sun was low in the sky-their second full day at the ford-and the river was made molten by the lurid streams of light off to their left, although this side of the rock prominence was in deep shadow.
The mud covering Gamet’s leather-clad legs was drying to a stiff, crack-latticed skin that shed dust as he clambered in Tavore’s wake. He was breathing hard, his undergarments soaked with sweat.
They reached the summit, emerging once more into sunlight. A brisk, hot wind swept the barren, flat rock. A ring of stones on a lower shelf, on what passed for the lee side, marked where a hearth or watch-fire had once been constructed, possibly at the time of the Chain of Dogs.
The Adjunct wiped dust from her gloves, then strode to the north edge. After a moment, Gamet followed.
The city of Ubaryd was visible, dun-coloured and sheathed in smoke, to the northeast. Beyond it glittered the Dojal Hading Sea. The city’s harbour was crowded with ships.
‘Admiral Nok,’ the Adjunct said.
‘He’s retaken Ubaryd, then.’
‘Where we will resupply, yes.’ Then she pointed northward. ‘There, Gamet. Do you see it?’
He squinted, wondering what he was supposed to look at across the vast wasteland that was the Ubaryd Odhan. Then the breath hissed between his teeth.
A fiery wall of red on the horizon, as if a second sun was setting.
‘The Whirlwind,’ Tavore said.
Suddenly, the wind was much colder, pushing hard against Gamet where he stood.
‘Beyond it,’ the Adjunct continued, ‘waits our enemy. Tell me, do you think Sha’ik will contest our approach?’
‘She would be a fool not to,’ he replied.
‘Are you certain of that? Would she rather not face unblooded recruits?’
‘It is a huge gamble, Adjunct. The march alone will have hardened the Fourteenth. Were I her, I would prefer to face a battle-weary, bruised enemy. An enemy burdened with wounded, with a shortage of arrows, horses and whatnot. And by that time of final meeting, I would also have learned something of you, Adjunct. Your tactics. As it is, Sha’ik has no way to take your measure.’
‘Yes. Curious, isn’t it? Either she is indifferent to me, or she feels she has already taken my measure-which of course is impossible. Even assuming she has spies in our army, thus far I have done little more than ensure that we march in an organized fashion.’
Spies? Gods below, I hadn’t even considered that!
Neither spoke for a time, each lost in their own thoughts as they stared northward.
The sun was vanishing on their left.
But the Whirlwind held its own fire.